They say that love is like a rose
That stems to scrape the scattered sky.
But in their poetry and prose
They always fail to specify
The nature of the soil from which
A flower budding upwards flows.
A fissure of alluvium, rich;
A sylvan tower from it grows.
My love pertains to more than just
The stem, the thorns, the lovely rose.
My love for soil and ash and dust
And grass on which I may repose
Is just as swift as that towards
The bud. So then let me propose
To fit ourselves with pens not swords
And wallow in the verdant rows,
The world to which I am attached.
And that profound devotion knows
My love to my beloved’s matched.